


Say Goodnight

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dementia, Established Relationship, M/M, Sherlock is a good son, post reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock surprises John with some news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I like to be sentimental. Well, frequently. So sue me.

Say goodnight, not goodbye,  
You will never leave my heart  
behind; like the path of a star,  
I’ll be anywhere you are.

-Beth Nielson Chapman

 

It was very obvious that Sherlock had something significant he wanted to talk about, but also equally clear that for some reason he was reluctant to do so. John mused briefly about how well he was coming to better understand the enigma that was the world’s only consulting detective.

Fleetingly, John considered the dreadful possibility that what might be coming was the “While this has been lovely, John, now I’m bored” conversation that a part of him had been expecting all along.

Instead of pressing Sherlock to talk, however, he went round the garden gate to get what he wanted. Since he was John Watson that meant he made two cups of tea and went to sit with Sherlock on the sofa. Maybe his plan was to remind Sherlock how much he relied on John for the endless provision of hot beverages. John shook his head; he was being ridiculous.

After only two sips, Sherlock sighed and leaned back against the cushions. His hand was stroking John’s knee, a habit that seemed to have become his most recent self-soothing technique. It was a method John could live with. “My mother,” he said finally.

Well, that was not what John had been expecting, only because Sherlock never mentioned his family, with the one obvious exception. John had rather assumed that his parents were dead.

“She’s not dead,” Sherlock said, still doing that mind reading trick. “My father died years ago, but my mother is still alive.” He frowned. “Well, I say alive. Does one consider residing in a dementia ward to be a life?”

John just looked at him.

“I rather miss her. She’s been there for a couple of years, ever since her lifelong eccentricities evolved into something quite different.”

“I’m sorry,” John said finally. “It must be difficult.”

“She always tolerated my own eccentricities better than anyone else in the family.” He smiled faintly. “Almost as well as you do.”

“I don’t tolerate them,” John said. “They’re a part of you and so I accept them. Like I accept your freezing cold feet in bed or the frequent inability to self-censor your words.”

Sherlock didn’t respond to that. “I visit her once a month. On some days she knows who I am and we can talk almost normally.”

“That’s good.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened suddenly. “Sometimes these things are hereditary.”

“Not always.”

“When I see her on the bad days…” He shook his head. “If I ever go down that road, John…”

John hoped that the sense of cold horror that ran through him at the very thought did not show on his face. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “I know,” he whispered and with those two words a promise was made. “Anyway, these things are just as often random. Could as easily be me.”

Sherlock stared at him, then raised a hand and stroked John’s hair. “I would never send you away,” he said hoarsely.

John blinked at the dampness threatening to over-spill his eyes.

Sometimes they were both quite ridiculously sentimental, a fact that neither man ever wanted to become known to the world at large.

After a long moment, Sherlock cleared his throat. “At any rate. Tomorrow I intend to visit her. I would like…I would appreciate it if you would come with me.”

 

John’s brow furrowed. “Well, Sherlock, I’m not any kind of an expert on dementia, you know. I’m certain your mother has the best possible care, so not really sure what I could offer.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock said fondly. “I don’t want you there as a doctor. I want my mother to meet you. To meet the person I’m going to spend my life with.” He looked away. “She might not understand, but nevertheless…it matters to me.”

John took a deep breath. “I would be honoured to meet your mother, Sherlock,” he said.

 

It was no surprise that the Holmes family matriarch would be living in the loveliest of situations. Hopwood Residence was a gleaming white mansion set within twenty-five acres of lush Sussex countryside. “Very nice,” John said, as the taxi that had brought them from the station stopped by the front entrance.

Sherlock shrugged. “Most of the people living here have no idea where they are, sadly.”

Still, the five or six residents sitting in the rose-covered arbor looked happy enough, even the one who kept calling out that “I’m a teapot and I don’t know where I belong.”

John pretended not to notice the deep breath that Sherlock took before pushing the door open and stepping into the marbled foyer.

Almost immediately, a smiling young woman in a smart grey suit approached them. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, how nice to see you.”

Sherlock fake smiled. “Hello. This is my friend, Dr. John Watson.”

She nodded at him and then turned to Sherlock again. “You picked a wonderful day to visit. Your mother is quite sharp today. She spent a good part of the morning criticizing the Prime Minister’s grammar.”

John hid a smile. He would expect no less of the woman who had raised Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

They followed her to the lift and went to the top floor, then down the corridor to a corner room. The closed door bore a small sign that read Mrs. Violet Holmes.

Sherlock turned to John. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting here just for a few moments, John?”

“Of course I don’t mind. Take your time.”

The young woman tapped once, then opened the door. “Mrs. Holmes,” she said in a professionally cheerful tone. “Look who’s come to visit today.”

Sherlock crossed the room and bent to place a careful kiss on the wrinkled cheek. “Hello, Mummy,” he said. “You’re looking well.”

She eyed him with surprisingly clear blue-grey eyes. “You need a haircut,” she said tartly, but there was a slight smile on her face.

It was indeed a very good day to visit.

He sat in the chair opposite her. “You’ve been sketching, I see.”

She glanced down at the sketchpad in her lap, looking briefly surprised to see it there. “Oh. Yes. They encourage me.”

He lifted the pad and studied the sketch of the view from the window of the arbor below. “Very nice.”

“What have you been up to?"  
He replaced the pad and shrugged. “Oh, just the usual.”

She gave a ladylike snort. “Which for you could mean any number of horrible things. Mycroft says you help the police.”

Mycroft told her that every time he visited, of course.

“Well, they need it, don’t they?” Sherlock grinned. Then he cleared his throat; best to get on with it, because she could slip away in the blink of an eye. “Mummy, there is a special reason I’ve come today.”

She nodded. “I could tell. You seem excited about something. I was almost beginning to fear that a gruesome murder had occurred on the premises.”

Sherlock shook his head. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Obviously this ‘someone’ is important.”

“Yes. Extremely important. It’s my partner. Would you like to meet him?”

“Of course I would, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood and started for the door. Then he paused. “Mummy…he is a very good man.”

Her eyes rested on Sherlock’s face. “And you love him.”

“I do. Very much. And for some reason, he loves me as well.” With that, he opened the door and gestured for John to enter. “Mummy, this is Doctor John Watson. John, my mother, Violet Holmes.”

John stepped forward immediately and took one of her hands between both of his. “It is a real pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“And you, doctor.”

“John, please.”

Sherlock just watched.

“Well, John, my son tells me that you love him.”

It was as if she knew that her time of clarity might vanish as unexpectedly as it had appeared and there were things she wanted to say.

John did not waver. “I do.”

“Sherlock has never thought of himself as being terribly lovable.”

“I know. He was mistaken.”

She studied him. “He also says that he loves you very much.”

“To my eternal surprise, he does,” said John with a smile.

She laughed softly. “I am sure that my son is equally surprised. He never expected you.”

“And who could have anticipated him?” John gestured towards the other man.

Her lips twitched in an almost smile.

Sherlock moved to sit again and John leaned against the chair. “John is not only a doctor, you know. He also helps me on my cases.”

“Indeed?” She eyed him again.

John reddened a little. “Sherlock solves the cases. I tag along and bandage his injuries when necessary.”

“Unless my son has changed dramatically, I should think simply the bandaging would provide full-time employment.”

“What John said is not true,” Sherlock interjected. “He often sets me on the path to a solution. And he is my blogger.”

Something seemed to amuse her again, but she said nothing.

They chatted for a few more minutes, until the pauses between her sentences grew longer and her gaze cloudy. Abruptly, Sherlock stood. “We best be off, Mummy.”

She only nodded vaguely.

John stepped over and took her hand again. He leaned down close to her ear and whispered something that Sherlock could not hear, but his mother smiled and kissed John’s cheek.

Sherlock gave her a hug. “Goodnight,” he said, although it was barely noon.

When they were in the corridor again, Sherlock paused as he unbuttoned his suit jacket. “She always hates it if I say goodbye. But goodnight is fine,” he explained quietly.

It was not until they were in another taxi heading back to the train station that Sherlock asked, “What did you say to her?”

“I just promised to always take care of you.”

Sherlock huffed a bit, but then he took John’s hand and squeezed it.

John returned the squeeze. “And I agree with her about goodbyes. Goodnight is much better.”

After a moment, Sherlock nodded. “No more goodbyes. Not for us.”

The rest of the taxi ride was silent.

fini

**Author's Note:**

> Rather sadly, the 'teapot lady' was real. Sometimes one had to laugh to keep from crying.


End file.
